


Reporter Say What?

by ussihavelovedthestarstoofondly



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:42:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23419177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussihavelovedthestarstoofondly/pseuds/ussihavelovedthestarstoofondly
Summary: If you’re looking for a grumpy, gorgeous tall drink of water, look no further than the brave and famed Commander Wolffe of the Grand Army of the Republic.Commander of the 104th Battalion’s famed Wolf Pack, Commander Wolffe exudes confidence and chivalry both on the battlefield and…“What’cha writing?”***“Hi,” he says, and you grin at him, eyes raking up and down him.“You’re cute,” you tell him. He coughs out something close to a laugh, leaning on the bar next to you.“Think so?” He can’t help but ask. It seems foreign to him that you wouldn’t comment on the scar, the cybernetic eye, and that fact that he looks scary.“Yeah,” you grin, and tell him your name.“Wolffe,” he says, “My name is Wolffe.” You grin and pat the stool next to you.“I’m a reporter,” you tell him. He lets out a startled laugh.
Relationships: Commander Wolffe/ Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos give me life. Also, feel to come scream with or at me on tumblr @icanbringyouincold

_ If you’re looking for a grumpy, gorgeous tall drink of water, look no further than the brave and famed Commander Wolffe of the Grand Army of the Republic.  _

_ Commander of the 104th Battalion’s famed Wolf Pack, Commander Wolffe exudes confidence and chivalry both on the battlefield and… _

“What’cha writing?” 

“Kriff, Rosana, you scared the shit out of me,” you tell her. Rosana Yarbken, your best friend, and your roommate, makes a sound of glee, ripping the tablet out of your hands as she scrolls through what you’ve written. As she does, she tips herself over the couch, throwing her legs into your lap and smacking them over the back of your head on the way. You grunt, and make a sound of disgust. 

“You didn’t even take your scrubs off!” You complain. She laughs. 

“I did just get off shift from the GAR med center. I haven’t had time and I’m more interested in this,” she shakes the tablet at you for emphasis, “I love the stuff you write,” she continues. You roll your eyes. 

“Have you met Wolffe? Or anything that you’ve overheard? Anything more personal you can give me?” She grins at you as you poke at her feet with a disgusted look on your face. 

“I haven’t. Buuut…” She sing-songs, waving the tablet above you. “You could come to 79’s with me tomorrow,” she asks, raising an eyebrow. You roll your eyes. 

“I feel so gross even using what you’ve told me that you’ve overheard in these articles,” you tell her. She smiles softly at you. 

“Hey,” she leans forwards and squeezes your shoulder. “What you’re doing is  _ amazing _ , honey, really.” You roll your eyes, wiggling further down into the couch. 

“You mean taking what are horribly objectifying articles that want me to focus mainly on abs and to make scars sexy. The scars aren’t sexy, Ros! They’re  _ kriffing  _ battle scars, they’re PTSD carved into someone’s skin!” She smiles softly at you again, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. 

“Have I told you how proud I am to have you as a best friend and honorary sister?” she asks. You smile softly at her as she shoves off the couch. “Also, is there still some of that starcherry cereal?” You roll your eyes. 

“I think that’s disgusting, if you left some, then it’s still there,” you tell her. You don’t need to see her to know that she’s rolling her eyes. 

“So, do you want to come to 79’s tomorrow? Not for your story but just to get a drink. To talk to some people who aren’t and I quote ‘lecherous leeches who wouldn’t know a moral if it smashes them in the face,’” Ros says. You laugh, dropping the pad to the floor, knowing you’re not going to get anymore writing done until she goes to bed. 

“And how was your day?” You ask her. She turns, one eyebrow raised and a mouth full of cereal. You cross your arms and tilt your chin. 

“I’m not changing the subject,” you tell her. She keeps that one eyebrow raised at you. 

“Come on,” she says. “Honey, really, even if it’s just for a drink I don’t think all those report friends are good for you. They’re definitely bad for your blood pressure,” she adds. You tilt your head, point a finger at her. 

“I never should have become friends with an extrovert,” you tell her. She laughs. 

“I’m going to bed,” she announces, dropping her dish in the sink before she brushes past you. 

“Take off the scrubs first!” You yell after her. She laughs, waving at you over her shoulder. You sigh as you open the tablet again, staring at the screen. You don’t want to write about how “Commander Wolffe Should Be the Man of Your Dreams”, you want to write about how the Clones are people, and how PTSD needs to be addressed in the civilian GAR staff, especially the medical personnel who are stationed on the front line. You scrub your hand over your face, tossing the tablet over the back of the couch. Maybe you should’ve gone into politics, maybe then you could’ve actually made a difference. 

“Fuck,” you mutter. 

***

The bar is too loud, there’s too many people pressing against you, and if you didn’t love Ros so much, you would’ve ditched out long ago, but here you are, sequestered at the far end of the bar where you can keep an eye on the people passing around you, and on Ros and her friends. 

You greatly appreciate that she doesn’t press you into further social interaction, that she simply accepts that you being out is enough. You’ve noticed some clones, but for the most part they’re staying towards the more populated sections of the bar, and not the dark, sequestered corners. 

You’re also well, well on your way to being drunk. 

***

Usually, Wolffe loves how attentive his brothers are. It’s saved their lives on more than one occasion. However, right now, Sinker won’t stop gently kicking the back of his knees and Boost keeps pointing  _ you _ out. 

You're tucked away in the back corner of the bar, looking for all the world like you’d rather be anywhere else, but every time one of the nurses stops by to check in with you, you smile at them. 

“Just go say hi,” Sinker says. 

“Yeah, the worst she can do is leave,” Boost says, which earns him a punch to the shoulder from Wildfire. 

“You should go talk to her!” Sinker reiterates. Wolffe growls, but starts the walk over towards you because otherwise the Wolf Pack  _ won’t shut up until he does.  _ You look up and glance at him almost as soon as he starts walking towards you. 

Your eyes are captivating, swirls of something that Wolffe can’t read in the low bar light. You tilt your head, turning slightly on your stool. 

“Hi,” he says, and you grin at him, eyes raking up and down him. 

“You’re cute,” you tell him. He coughs out something close to a laugh, leaning on the bar next to you. 

“Think so?” He can’t help but ask. It seems foreign to him that you wouldn’t comment on the scar, the cybernetic eye, and that fact that he looks scary. 

“Yeah,” you grin, and tell him your name. 

“Wolffe,” he says, “My name is Wolffe.” You grin and pat the stool next to you. 

“I’m a reporter,” you tell him. He lets out a startled laugh. 

“Yeah?” He asks. 

“Yeah, you read the tabloids?” He raises an eyebrow at you. 

“I don’t,” he says. You plant one elbow on the bar, hands held up, gearing up for what appears to be one _hell_ of an argument. 

“You wanna know what I have to write? Fucking tabloids about clones. Not that I have anything against clones, its because they have me write about why you would make a good husband! That was my last article. Which is such bullshit, because they should be focusing on the fact that clones don’t have basic rights and the fact that people don’t understand that the clones dying on the front lines are  _ brothers  _ and that you’re  _ people  _ and,” Wolffe can tell that you’re obviously _very_ drunk, but you're also gearing up for what is clearly one  _ hell _ of an argument. He thinks he should have Plo introduce you to some of the senators, but right now he smiles and settles onto the bar stool to listen to what is setting up to be a very, very well structured argument. 

Wolffe thinks he falls in love with you in that back corner of 79’s on a random Sunday night. 

  
  



	2. at one point in time, i used to sleep through the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody has nightmares sometimes. Tea is (usually) the answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are my whole life please and thank you. Come scream with or at me on tumblr: @icanbringyouincold

You’re startled out of sleep by a gentle knock, and suddenly your on full alert, muscles tense, hand curling under your pillow, searching for a blaster that  _ isn’t there _ and the neck knock sends your panic spiraling higher before you realize that there  _ isn’t _ a stasis cuff around your wrist holding you to the bed. You slowly roll over, squinting at the chronometer. Two-oh-three in the  _ kriffing _ morning. You hiss as your feet hit the cold floor, scowling the whole way to the door because if it’s one of your goddamn cowokers who got  _ just a little too caught up in work _ there’s going to a murder to report. 

You’re gearing up for what will be a very, very angry tongue-lashing but it’s not a coworker when you open the door. Wolffe is standing there, shifting on his feet, with only the bottom half of his armor on and your about to ask him if he got lost trying to get home or into someone’s pants, but you notice the red around his eyes, the very suspicious sheen to them. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask him as you step back and gesture for him to come into the apartment. 

“No,” he says and he sounds small, and scared and a lot like the little boy two doors down when he’d told you about how his mom sometimes hit his dad when he did something he didn’t like, and how he was scared his mom was going to hit him next. 

“Sit down at the bar,” you tell him, gesturing to the tiny island with the two stools where you and Ros usually eat, and usually never use the stools, too busy trying to run off to the next thing to sit down. 

You turn away from him and start pulling ingredients out of cabinets. The base of the drink is tea, but it gets more diverse after that with several different spices, some cream, and a healthy spoonful of sugar. You turn as you wait for the water in the pot to boil. 

“Do you want me to talk, or do you want silence?” you ask. Wolffe opens his mouth, closes it. He shrugs. 

“My mother was originally from Alderaan. She was sweet, naive, and wanted to help everyone. Not bad qualities, but when my father told her he was a spice trader she thought of cinnamon, so when he asked her to marry him she said yes. She and my sister and I were left to our own devices on Coruscant’s lower levels as my father kept running his…” you pause. “Business,” you decide on because it’s the only civil word that comes to mind. “Mom always wanted to go back to Alderaan, but Dad wouldn’t take her, and we didn’t have the money. She worked as a waitress, but when her days off lined up with days my sister and I didn’t have school, she’d take us to the library and read us books from Alderaan. She’d teach us their philosophy, their art, their history.” You sigh as the water starts to boil, turning back to the stove. 

“Did your mom ever get back to Alderaan?” He asks. 

“Technically, but my sister actually got to go,” you tell him. He nods. 

“You didn’t?” You close your eyes, stirring the drink gently. 

“No,” you tell him. 

“May I ask why not?” He asks. You pour the drink through the strainer and wait for the liquid to filter through into the cups before responding. 

“You don’t talk about your nightmares, and I won’t talk about mine,” you tell him. 

“Sorry,” he says as he takes the cup you offer to him. You shake your head as you gesture towards the couch. 

“You didn’t know, the only thing you would need forgiveness for is if you asked about something I’d already told you not to,” you tell him. He nods as he sinks down next to you. You shove one of the blankets that had been hanging over the edge of the couch towards him. 

“What’s that?” He asks. You roll your eyes. 

“A blanket, Commander,” you tell him. He frowns, but takes it hesitantly. 

“It’s soft,” he says. 

“It’s  _ very _ soft,” you correct him. He slowly spreads it over him one-handed, taking a sip of the drink. 

“This is very good,” he tells you. You offer him a very soft, slow smile. 

“Family recipe,” you tell him. He tries to smile at you, but it falls flat. You appreciate the effort, grining at him for half a second longer before slouching down and closing your eyes, cradling the cup close to you. 

“What was the name of the family recipe?” Wolffe asks. 

“Happiness in a cup,” you tell him.

***

You’d fallen asleep almost twenty minutes ago, and had promptly tilted over and were now using the Commander’s shoulder as a pillow. Wolffe can’t stop thinking about the name that your family had given to the drink, and how it seems like an apt description. The drink is warm, sweet, and there’s a spice in it that makes the warmth is his chest stick around long after he’s finished the drink. He’d gently set both of your cups on the small table, and then leaned back against the couch. 

He wants to tuck tail and run back to his brothers because the warmth that’s in his chest right now he’s never felt for anyone but them and it scares him a little, but you’re also  _ asleep on his shoulder. _ Wolffe knows he doesn’t look like the most trustworthy person out there, and the faith and trust you must have in him, especially built over a drunk rant in the back of 79’s and a few meals at some shitty diners, is no small thing, and he wants to bask in that feeling forever. 

***

“Sinker?” You think you’re remembering the name of Wolffe’s sergeant correctly, and based on the sheepish smile, and the shrug of a shoulder you guessed right. 

“Hey, um.” He stops, and you raise an eyebrow at him when he just, doesn’t continue. “So Wolffe said you made some good tea?” He says. You sigh as you open the door wider, gesturing the clone in. He didn’t even bother with any armor, standing in the entry of your apartment in just his blacks. 

“Go sit on the couch,” you tell him, heading into the kitchen. He follows you into the kitchen instead. 

“If I talk you have to promise not to report it,” he says. You spin to look at him with horror and hurt on your face.

“Obviously. Any of the shit I write for the tabloids I try to make you guys into people but I pull basically all of it out of my ass,” you tell him. He nods and shifts on his feet. 

“I didn’t mean to imply…” he says. You wave your hand at him. 

“It’s not your fault. It’s a valid question and most reporters are horrid vultures so. I don’t blame you for asking.” He stands in the entrance to your kitchen, watching as you start to assemble the ingredients for the drink. Wolffe had called it ‘tea’ but when he tried to describe what, exactly, you put into it Sinker decided it wasn’t really tea. 

“It’s the same dream, or the same ending.” You nod as you start the water. “The ending is that they’re all dead, and I’m not and I wish I could join them,” Sinker says. You close your eyes, fingers tightening around the handle of the pot, trying to remind yourself that Sinker can’t read your thoughts: he has no way of knowing that the words he just said have been echoing through the black, empty cavity of your chest for years. 

“Are you looking for me to provide advice? To just say I’m sorry? Or to just listen?” You ask him. He rubs his hand over his mouth. 

“I think… advice?” He asks. You nod, bracing your forearms against the counter. 

“Ok, well, let me preface this interaction, and any future ones, that I’m not a psychologist.” He nods, and you take a deep breath. 

“It sounds to me like your nightmare is rooted in being the one who survives,” you say. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Usually I don’t think about it, but I saw one of Boost’s scars, that I  _ know  _ is there but for some reason it just set it off,” he says. 

“The scars you and brothers carry are reminders that you can be hurt. Seeing that would, of course, cause worry like that. It’s normal, Sinker. And honestly, I’d be more worried if you didn’t worry about those things. THe men you’re fighting alongside are your brothers so  _ of course _ seeing those reminders is going to be hard and scary and hurt. And I’m sure that’s not the answer that you want to hear but, unfortunately, the truth is a bitch.” Sink huffs out a laugh. 

“It doesn’t help that the Generals don’t care about us. Yeah, some of them do, and we got lucky with General Plo, and yes we’re designed to be soldiers, but we’re not droids. We’re alive and human and we feel,” he says. You nod as you pour the drink into two cups, waiting for it to filter. 

“May I offer a suggestion?” You ask him. He nods. 

“Have you told this to any of your brothers?” You ask him. He shakes his head. “Then I’ll recommend that next time you’re having the problem, ask them if you can give them a hug. Being able to feel that they’re alive and whole does a lot more than just objectively observing and knowing it,” you tell him. Sinker grins at you, and soft and gentle and wavering. 

“You give good advice,” he says. You tap your fingers against your cup. 

“I had a sister,” you admit to the counter top, unable to look up at him. “And I won’t ever get the chance to hug her and know that she’s ok again, so take my word for it when I say it’s worth it every time.” He wraps his hand around yours, fingers tightening. Neither of you say anything, and you both let go to hold your cups, drinking tea in your kitchen at one thirteen in the morning. 

***

You shouldn’t be surprised anymore by the apparent rotating door of Clones that swing through the door. You feel bad when Ros walks out though, apparently woken up by the two clones in your kitchen. Boost and Wildfire don’t turn to look at her, but you can feel them scrutinizing your face: seeing if you’re telling them that this new person is a threat. You smile softly at her. 

“Sorry, Ros, thought I was being quiet,” you tell her. She waves her hand, moving towards the fridge. 

“I work nights, Honey, I find it hard to sleep anyway,” she says. “You boys like cookies?” But she’s already pulling out the dough and baking sheet before they can answer. The brothers are practically curled into each other. Ros smiles at you, bumping her shoulder into yours. 

“Who did the painting?” Wildfire asks. You flinch, before turning to look at him. 

“Mine,” you tell them. Boost tilts his head, turning to look between you and the painting. 

“It’s gorgeous,” he says. You purse your lips. 

“My mom always said you have to find something that no one can take from you and hold on to it. I chose art. No matter how fast anyone destroys it, you can always make more,” you tell them. 

“Did you study art?” Boost asks. You shake your head. 

“No, I studied law and language,” you tell them. 

“And then you became a reporter?” You turn and hand them the cups. 

“There was a time, and a long time ago, when I thought I could change the world,” you tell them. They take the cups. 

“You changed the world for us, for the Wolfpack,” Wildfire says. You smile at him, soft and gentle, he thinks his chest is going to cave in. “That matters.” You turn back towards the stove, to pretend to clean, so you can bite your teeth into your lip hard enough that that you taste iron. Ros doesn’t say anything just leans her shoulder into yours, a mirror image of the clones at the bar behind you. 


	3. What do you think family means? (It isn't all genetics, kid)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you think family means? Let's redefine it in the dictionary, I'm not sure it's right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are my whole life please and thank you. Come scream with or at me on tumblr: @icanbringyouincold

You wake up  _ screaming _ . You can’t  _ breathe  _ and you don’t have a blaster and there aren’t stasis cuffs and your  _ sister isn’t next to you, damnit!  _ You remember screaming your sister’s name, and you wake up with the taste of “Alieri” in your mouth. You had thought you were getting  _ better _ . 

No one’s home: Ros is at work, none of the clones have come by, and you’re  _ grateful _ for that: that no one has to see how  _ weak _ and  _ useless  _ you are. 

_ “Stop crying, girl. You’re worse than your mother. You want to go to school don’t you? Useless bitch.”  _ You shake your head, shoving up out of bed, pulling on the closest pair of pants, scrubbing at your face with a t-shirt you grabbed off of the floor. You pull on a different shirt and jacket, bolting out the door. 

_ “ You know what this means, don’t you?” _

_ “Fuck you.” _

_ “C’mon, girl, don’t make it harder than this needs to be. You want Alieri to eat, don’t you?” _

You stumble down the stairs fast enough that you bounce off the walls on the last landing. You’re still rubbing your shoulder as you run into the street. There’s too many lights from the transports, and the sweet woman who’s always in the alleyway next to the building trying to sell spice is trying to talk to you, and you  _ can’t _ because there’s  _ too much _ , too much light, too much noise, you can’t hear if someone’s coming up  _ behind you, you can’t see them coming _ because there’s too much input and you  _ run.  _

The deeper you get into Coruscant, the lower down, the more at home you feel. You grew up in these alleys, some barely a shoulder width across, you  _ know  _ them. 

“ _ Faster, girl. Next time it might not be me who catches you, and they won’t be so nice. What’ll you do then?” Laughter. Pain.The scent of iron. Blood.  _

Your hands won’t stop shaking, but you also can’t stop moving because… because. You don’t know why. There’s no good reason for you to come down here, and just as you’re stopping to ponder that, you  _ feel  _ someone walking up behind you. 

You turn and catch their wrist, fingers tight, mouth pulled into a snarl. There isn’t the knife in the hand that you were expecting. The twi’lek grins at you, then his face shifts into one of bewilderment. 

“Anoon,” you greet calmly. “You’re looking well.” He startles when you say his name, eyes wide. 

“You got out,” he says, and his face shifts into a frown. “You weren’t supposed to come back.” You feel the mask of calm on your face fracture for a moment, and all that horrid  _ feeling _ leaks through. 

“I know, but I don’t have anywhere else to go, and I can’t wake up without screaming her name,” you tell him. 

“ _ You mother was a naive ditz, girl. You’re smarter than that. You know what it takes to survive, but more importantly you have the guts to do it. Your mom and sister didn’t. You’re better than they are.”  _

“Then you should’ve gone to a bar, anywhere that isn’t  _ here _ ,” he tells you. 

“C’mon, Anoon, please. Please, just once more, I don’t have anywhere else to go, no one else.” He steps closer to you, catches your arm and pulls you into the dark mouth of a less populated alley way. 

“What about that nurse friend you mentioned?” he asks. You shake your head. 

“I love her, don’t get me wrong, but she doesn’t  _ get  _ it. And she doesn’t know everything.” He sighs as he looks over your head. 

“You were fourteen when we started this. We ended it before you were even  _ legal _ ,” he hisses. You smack his chest. 

“Fuck that, I don’t  _ care. _ ” He groans. 

“You need to find a better way to deal with this,” he hisses. 

“Deal with what? Being lonely? Having no one else to turn to? Noon, I  _ can’t  _ tell anyone any of this shit! Do you know how much I’d be confessing to? I’d lose everything I’ve built, everything that proves that I’m not what he tried to make me into.” Anoon grabs your shoulder, mouth tense. 

“My  Allesh,”  _ my Safety,  _ he murmurs, gripping your shoulders. 

“This is the last time. And then we’re  _ done, _ ” he growls. You nod. 

“Thank you,” you tell him. He shakes his head. 

“Don’t thank me,” he snaps back. 

***

You’re not paying attention to anything on the walk back to your apartment. You know there’s tears on your face, both dried and fresh. You know you were with Anoon a long time, long enough that you’re going to be sore in places that haven’t been sore in a long time, and you can see the beginning light of morning slowly painting it’s way down the upper levels of Coruscant. 

“Where the hell were you?” You practically jump five feet in the air, backpedaling hard enough that you bounce against the wall on the other side of the hallway. 

“ _ Kriffing _ hell! How did you get in?” You snap, fury hiding pain and terror. Sinker looks startled, and Wolffe has a deep frown on his face. 

“Ros made us all our own keys because she was…” Wolffe shuts up as you storm into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind you, glaring at him. 

“She did _what_?” You know your voice has dropped, that it’s gone ice cold and _furious_. They both swallow and Sinker shifts on the couch. There _can’t_ be that many keys out there, _he_ might find out, he might _find_ _one_ , he might...

“She uh… gave us all copies of the key? So we would stop breaking in?” You swear running your hand through your hair. 

“She didn’t think it would be a problem. We can give them back,” Wolffe offers. 

“No,” you snap. They both stare at you. You scrub your hand over your face. 

“Sorry. I’m over reacting. I’m tired and hungry. Are you guys hungry?” You don’t wait for them to answer as you walk towards your room, shucking off your jacket as you go. 

“Were you crying?” Sinker asks. You scrub at your face before turning back towards them and walking towards the kitchen. 

“No,” you tell them. You all know it’s a  _ blatant _ lie: a blind person could see the tear tracks on your face. You miss the concerned look that the clones share behind your back. 

***

“My stomach hurts very badly,” you mutter, before taking another drink of caff. The three clones in the room turn to look at you where you're awkwardly perched in the corner of the couch, several data pads, a book on abnormal dathomirian psychology, and several actual paper notebooks filled with scribbles in what looks to be at least six different languages scattered around you. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Ros asks. She’s sitting at the bar, data pad in her hands as she works through continuing education for nurses, flipping through medical books on the two other data pads sitting next to her elbow and occasionally swearing at the pad she’s holding. 

“Uh,” you pause, rubbing your hand across your jaw. You hear Ros sigh: the  _ defeated _ and  _ long suffering  _ sigh of a woman who is a care-taker down to her bones and, through time and circumstance, has come to be friends with a woman who will, if left totally unattended, forget to eat for up to seventy two hours. 

“You didn’t set an alarm?” She asks. 

“Pardon me, I was a little distracted by  _ murder _ ,” you tell her. You can feel her rolling her eyes from across the apartment. 

“Who got murdered?” She asks. 

“Spice trader,” you mutter, chewing on your bottom lip, frowning at the toxicology report that you’d ‘found’. If by  _ found _ you meant accidentally hacked into the police servers. And if by  _ accidently _ you meant  _ completely _ on purpose.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be writing the crime section,” she says. You make a noise that could be taken as an affirmative. She just rolls her eyes and turns back to her simulated patient. 

“Are you going to eat?” You glance in Sinker’s direction when he asks, looking to where he’s laying on the floor, feet on the couch laying on Wolffe’s shins. Wolffe is napping, wrapped in the fuzzy grey blanket you keep on the couch. Wildfire is also napping, using Sinker’s stomach as a pillow. 

“In a minute,” you tell him. You hear Ros swear at you, and you grin. 

You had never believed in the idea or the  _ feeling _ of home, not for a long time now, but  _ this _ , you think,  _ this _ just might be it. 

***

_ It’s dark out, the flashing neon lights of Coruscant’s bar district creating kaleidoscope patterns on your skin. Wolffe thinks it must be the force intervening after he had, stupidly, let you leave 79’s without getting your com code. Now, here you are again, grining at him and completely sober as he tells you that he’s hungry.  _

_ "Oh, I think I have something!” You tell him, pulling your bag around to dig around in it. You make a noise of triumph as you pull out an open, half-empty and very banged up box of crackers.  _

_ “I usually carry some,” you tell him. He smiles, reaches out to take them.  _

_ “I was thinking more like dinner,” he says. Your face crumples for half a second before you're smiling again, and start to pull the crackers back, but he grabs the box before you can pull it away.  _

_ “I still want the crackers. Split them with me?” He asks, and watches as your eyebrows climb up your forehead.  _

_ “Are you asking me to dinner?” You ask him. He tilts his head, raises an eyebrow at you.  _

_ “Yes,” he says. He watches as both your eyebrows climb up your forehead.  _

_ “Me? I was terrible company last time! My roommate said I didn’t shut up the whole time, that I just kept bitching to high heaven about god knows what,” you tell him. He shakes his head, feels a gentle look settle onto his face.  _

_ “You spent forty-five minutes rolling through a very thorough and very convincing argument as to why clones shouldn’t be considered property of the GAR and why we should be full citizens with rights and the ability to vote. I must say, you would have made a kickass senator,” he tells you. You laugh, one of disbelief, looking embarrassed, dropping your eyes and kicking the ground in front of you. You glance up at him from under your eyelashes.  _

_ “Yeah?” You ask him. He nods, holds his hand out to you.  _

_ “Split these crackers and tell me some more political theories of yours?” He asks. You smile at him, slow and gentle and radiant, and Wolffe is reminded of sunrises that paint the sky in a whole canvas of color and warm the earth under your feet.  _

_ “Better buckle up, Wolffe, I’ve got a couple,” you tell him. A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth as you wind your fingers through his.  _

_ “I’m sure you do. Can’t wait to hear them all,” he tells you. You grin, leaning into his shoulder as you two start towards the restaurant.  _

_ Wolffe doesn’t realize he still has the half-empty box of crackers until he gets back to barracks and Sinker catches him in the hallway, asking what the kriff he’s doing with a very beat up box of crackers. Wolffe just shrugs, and walks past his sergeant. _

***

Wolffe jerks awake at a sharp, incessant beeping sound. He’s startled to realize it’s his alarm: he slept through the night, and he dreamed about  _ you _ . He really doesn’t want to think about that too much, so he throws the blankets towards the end of his bed and stalks into the refresher, glaring at the floor the whole way. 

***

“You’re shitting me,” you say. Your boss grins. 

“You’ll be a great mentor,” he says. Your face shifts into an expression that conveys a  _ wild  _ lack of enthusiasm and a healthy amount of distrust and disgust. 

“If I say no will I lose my job?” you ask him. 

“If, and only if, you say yes to the intern you’ll get to write crime again.” You sigh and cross your arms, staring across the desk at him. You won’t have to write those bullshit tabloids anymore, but you’ll have to bring a  _ practical _ child with you everywhere. 

“Fine. But if she comes back emotionally traumatized, it’s not my fault.” Your boss rolls his eyes. 

“You’re not that terrifying,” he says. You raise an eyebrow at him, standing up. 

“Yeah? Ask my CI’s that,” you tell him. He laughs as you walk out. 

***

“I have a child now!” You announce, which is  _ excessively _ dramatic, but the last thing you want is an  _ intern _ . “Her name is Elaera Haduli and she’s a  _ fucking  _ criminology and law intern,” you growl. Ros, the heartless woman, just  _ laughs _ at you. The four clones, Wildfire, Wolffe, and two you don’t know, are all staring at you in horror. 

“I’m thinking about quitting!” You yell as you walk to your room. You hear Ros  _ wheeze  _ with laughter. Sometimes you swear she’s a psychopath. 

“She’s a kid, Ros,” you yell as you pull your pants off, flinging them into the corner of your room before pulling on sweats. Your shirt gets the same treatment as you grumble. 

“And you weren’t?” She asks. You lean out the door to your room so you can wave a finger at Ros, and you see the faces of the clones turn bright red when they realize you’re not wearing a shirt. 

“I went into the family business,” you inform her, tilting your chin up for effect. She wheezes with laughter again, one hand gripping the counter. 

“The  _ family business _ , what the fuck?” She gasps out. You narrow your eyes and duck back into your room. 

“Can we go back to the part where no one seems concerned that she has a kid now?” Wildfire asks. You hear Ros snort. 

“She has an intern, not an actual child,” Ros tells them. You roll your eyes as you walk out with a loose, threadbare t-shirt on. 

“It’s basically the same thing,” you tell her. She laughs. 

“At least your intern can feed herself. That’s better than you most days,” she says. You squeeze Wolffe’s shoulder as you walk past him, and gently punch Ros’ arm. 

“I take offense to that,” you tell her. “I can feed myself, I just forget.” She rolls her eyes. 

“Help with dinner, you ungrateful woman, and say hi to Rex and Kix,” she says, jerking her chin towards the two clones. 

“Welcome to the mayhem, boys,” you tell them, pulling veggies out the fridge. 

“Do you regularly walk around without a shirt?” Rex asks. You laugh. 

“Ros wishes,” you say. Ros groans. 

“Please, for the love of the maker, do  _ not  _ encourage her,” Ros says. You laugh at her, hip-checking her to get her to move over so you can work on the stove beside her. She immediately hip-checks you back, and it devolves from there until Kix loudly declares that while he is a medic, he is on leave and will  _ not  _ be treating any kitchen-related injuries. This, you think, must be  _ home _ . 

You remember the last time you felt like this, long ago, curled on a bed with your mother and sister, stomachs full for the first time in weeks, laughing over some joke you’d forgotten to the distance and the pain between then and now. 

You want to live here forever, in the warmth and the safety and the love. 

***

The planet is  _ hot _ , and  _ muggy _ , and the Wolfpack can’t move quietly because the top layer of the planet is perpetually saturated, and their boots squelch the whole time. 

You would love the flowers, Wolffe thinks. You’d be fascinated with them, and Wolffe finds himself wishing he could pick one and bring it back to you. 

“Wolffe?” Boost asks. Wolffe shakes his head, tells himself to stop thinking about you, to stop missing you, and turns towards his brother. 

“What?” He asks. 

***

All the lights are off in your apartment when Wolffe steps in, turning to shut the door behind him. He jumps when he turns around and sees you there. 

“Welcome home,” You murmur as you walk closer to him. He wraps his arms around you and you lean, pliant and soft, into his chest. Wolffe buries his nose in your hair, and takes a deep breath. You smell like sage and lavender, like home and safety. 

“‘M too tired to make you tea,” You murmur. “C’mon.” He follows as you pull on his hand, and he’s startled when you pull him past the couch and down the hallway into your room. 

“Are you…” you don’t let him finish, shoving him into the bed and practically face-planting into his chest, solid and still sleep-warm. 

“Yes,” you tell him. “If I thought you were ok with it, I would’ve greeted you with a kiss.” Wolffe feels his heart flip in his chest. He’s dreamed about kissing you for  _ weeks _ now, but he’s never had the guts to  _ ask _ . 

“Please kiss me,” he murmurs. You don’t open your eyes as you lean up and kiss him. It’s chaste and soft and trusting and Wolffe thinks it’s going to  _ kill _ him. 

“You need to relax. ‘M not going anywhere,” You murmur, tucking your head back onto his chest. Wolffe wraps his arms around you, and since he can’t  _ process _ the kiss, he focuses on the  _ ridiculous _ number of pillows that you have on your bed. He wonders if they’re just for comfort, or if they serve some other purpose. You’re asleep again, relaxed and content in his arms. It makes something  _ warm  _ curl in his chest. 

***

You’re gone when Wolffe wakes up, and he  _ panics.  _ He’s out of bed and stops dead in the hallway when he sees you in the kitchen. You’re poking at something in a pan, and there’s a steaming cup of caff on the counter. You grin at him, and Wolffe feels his mouth dry up.  _ He loves you.  _

“I hope you’re ok with bacon,” you tell him. He grins, walking towards you. 

“Sounds amazing,” He says, snagging the caff off the counter and walking up to where he can wrap his arm around your waist. You lean into him, and he swears that he’d live here forever. He kisses the top of your head, tightening his arm around your waist. You hum in contentment, leaning back into him. He watches you tilt your head. 

“Got some crackers?” You ask. He laughs. 

“I’ll bring some next time,” he tells you. You grin. 

***

You’re  _ drunk. Very  _ drunk. In some seedy lower-level bar where Rosana and Wolffe and Boost and the other boys will never find you, where they likely will never  _ look  _ for you. 

It pisses you off, this lack of control. Not the lack of control caused by the alcohol, but by the fact that  _ he _ can send you spiraling. That  _ he  _ can have such control after so many years. It makes you want to scream. 

And it makes you want to hide. That you can be this vulnerable all because he asked you to… You shake your head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. 

You flinch when you recognize the face walking towards you. Now is quite possibly the last time you’d want to run into Elaera, but here she is, grining at you as she walks across the bar. You try to smile, but it comes out more as a grimace. 

“Hey, Elaera,” you mutter. 

“Hey,” she says, practically throwing herself on the stool next to you. “How are you?” She asks, a wide grin on her face. 

“I’m… brooding,” you tell her. She tilts her head. 

“Why?” You roll your eyes. 

“What are you doing here kid?” She just grins as she leans her shoulder against yours. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” She asks. You roll your eyes, taking a sip of your drink. 

“Are you even legal?” The Pantoran scoffs. 

“Of course I am,” she says. You don’t respond verbally, just raise your eyebrow and take a slow drink. She rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her drink. It’s neon pink, and glowing slightly. She sits with you for a moment longer, leg bouncing and chewing her lip. 

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were here to brood.” You scoff. 

“I never kid about brooding,” you tell her. She raises both eyebrows at you, before leaning closer, face scrunched up. 

“Did you just make a joke?” She asks. You snort, your mouth twisting in amusement. 

“It happens sometimes,” you tell her. She grins. 

“Do you live near here?” she asks. 

“You?” You ask her, avoiding her question. 

“I don’t. Are you always this paranoid?” 

“It’s the highlight of my personality,” you tell her. She smiles. 

“I think you’re a lot nicer that you pretend to be,” she tells you. You feel half a smile pull on your lips. 

“Don’t tell my roommate, you’ll ruin my reputation.” She laughs, and orders another shot to add to her drink. 

“What are you doing down here?” You ask her. Her face twists. 

“Do you really want to know?” she asks. 

“Yeah. I wouldn't have asked if I didn’t want to know,” you tell her. 

“Trying to find someone to hook up with,” she says. 

“Any success?” 

“Clearly not if I’m sitting here with  _ you. _ ” You snort and tilt your drink towards her as if to say ‘good point’. “No offense.” she adds. You snort. 

“None taken, kid.” 

“There’s a place with fries that aren’t necessarily  _ great _ but always hot and greasy down the block, you hungry?” She asks. You tap your glass on the bar twice while you think. 

“You always take pity on drunk people?” You ask her. She laughs, slapping some credits on the bar and standing up, pulling you with her. You shake your head. 

“Only the sad, old ones,” she says. 

“Hey!” You object. “I’m not that much older than you!” She just laughs, hooking her arm tighter through yours. 

“Whatever you say old lady,” she says. You pinch her arm. 


End file.
